


Fractured Fairy Tale

by only_freakin_donuts



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: F/F, It's 1992, Luisa wants to drink, Mia isn't there, Rose in a suit, and she can't think straight she's so gay, luisa's quinceanera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 19:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_freakin_donuts/pseuds/only_freakin_donuts
Summary: The one woman Luisa wanted at her Quinceañara can't be there. There is, however, an attractive young redhead in the restroom....





	Fractured Fairy Tale

**Author's Note:**

> For the girls of the Jane The Virgin discord server, including @aparticularbandit. Thanks for inspiring me (and helping me plan a Beauty and the Beast inspired quinceanera).

“ _Que bonita_ , you look like _una princesa_.”  
Luisa smiles, turning to see one of her aunts standing there in the doorway, beaming with pride. _“Gracias, tia.”_

Tia Freda didn’t have any daughters, but her sister…. well, her sister had a daughter. Then she jumped off a bridge. That daughter was turning fifteen now, and like all coming-of-age, Latina women, that meant it was the year of her quinceanera– the big, traditional party to celebrate her womanhood, and her heritage, with family and friends (and anyone else they could heckle into coming, the more the merrier). There would be lots of food, lots of music, lots of dancing, lots of old _abuelitas_ and _abuelitos_. The whole Alver family would be there, even the ones Luisa had never met. Except one member, of course, the one Luisa actually wanted to be there, more than anything.

“You might make your _abuela_ cry,” Tia Freda mentions, smoothing the saffron yellow tulle of Luisa’s dress. “You will make her so proud.”  
“She’ll probably find some imperfection to nitpick at,” Luisa says, her eyes flickering downwards, hoping that sounded like it hurt less than it did. She loved her abuela, of course, she just… didn’t do much for her self-esteem. _Not like her mother would’ve._

Her mother, she imagined, wouldn’t stop telling her how beautiful she was, even if she wasn’t perfect. A part of her knew her mother wasn’t either, even if she remembered her to be. She probably had love handles too, that spilled out of the top of her dress. Her hair didn’t stay perfectly curled the way her _abuela_ had wanted either– Luisa _really_ hadn’t wanted curls, but eventually she let her guard down and let her grandmother fuss over her hair. It wasn’t at all how she’d imagined it would be today, anyways. She’d always seen herself wearing it long and straight at her _quinces_ , just the way she remembered her mother’s being. The first part of that dream had gone in the trash a few months, along with twelve inches of her thick, brown locks. (That was, of course, before she’d thought the deed through and realized there was absolutely no way it would all grow back before her 15th birthday– maybe her 17th, though, too bad Latinas didn’t have _diecisieteneras_ ). The second part, earlier today, when her abuela pulled out the hot rollers. Her abuela had given into almost every request Luisa had for her special day– the yellow dress, the flats, letting Raf be her escort… but she wouldn’t budge on the curls. _Fine, the dream was already ruined anyways_. So, here, now– with curls that barely tickled her shoulders, her ruby-adorned tiara and ruby-toned lipstick, her yellow, _Beauty and the Beast_ inspired dress with her love handles peeking out beneath her arms, and her hidden flats– her mom would tell her she was _“absolutely beautiful, Hija.”_ And Luisa would believe her. 

She would tear up watching Rafael, at the ripe age of eight, standing tall and proud with his navy blue suit and red tie, escort his big sister and dance with her. Even at his age, he was preparing himself to be the man of the house, considering his father was never around for him or his sister. Emilio was present today though, for his daughter, and took over for the father-daughter dance tradition even though he had no clue how to dance (he listened to Allegria, he went to the dance lessons, Luisa even caught him practicing in front of the mirror one night… the man was just born with two left feet. He was white, she forgave him. And she danced with him with a smile on her face.) And then her _Abuela_ asked for a dance. 

“This one,” she says, over the soft, Spanish ballad playing, “is for your _Mama_. She would have loved to have been here today, Luisa. She would be so very proud of you.”  
Luisa smiles and tries not to cry, her mascara would run and she was really bad at applying it. Her eyes narrowed in on something behind her grandmother… the open bar. She obviously wasn’t allowed to have anything from it. That didn’t stop her from _wanting_ some, though. She knew what she was missing. And she could use a little buzz and a little bit of sting to get her through tonight, all these memories of her mother flying around like sparks. She was bound to ignite sooner or later. And she wanted to put alcohol on that fire.  
“Geez, _Abuela_ , you’re making me teary,” Luisa says, faking some somber laughter as their dance ends. She can’t take her eyes off the alcohol, so she should probably get out of here. “I’m gonna go touch up my makeup.”  
“Come back soon, _mi estrella_ ,” Allegria tells her. 

She hustles out of the ballroom as fast as she can with a dress the width of Texas surrounding her, making it into the bathroom having caused no harm to herself or anything along the way. There are real tears by the time she’s hovering over the sink, too, not the fake ones she’d shown her _abuela_. Goddamn it this was not the time, the mascara…

She hears a stall swing open and shut behind her. “Banquet halls,” a voice says, with an amused tone to it, “they’re like airports or hospitals, there’s always someone crying somewhere.”  
As it would turn out, there was a girl probably a few years older than her standing at the next sink, wearing a suit no less. Her crimson curls matched the flowers on her sport coat, she had a loose, white button-up shirt tucked into her form-fitting black pants, and she actually looked good with curls, unlike Luisa herself. _Damn this made her want to drink more! She was so gay._

She laughs to herself. “Yeah,” she agrees. “I’m a walking, stereotypical disaster tonight, I guess.”  
“You don’t look like a stereotype to me,” the pretty redhead obliges. “That’s really fancy for a prom dress.”  
“Oh, no, I’m not at a prom,” Luisa tells her. “It’s my _quinceanera_ , a Latina girl’s fifteenth birthday party.”  
“Oh, happy birthday, then.”  
“It’s not actually until the 10th, this is just the only day we could book the hall,” Luisa answers. She’s blushing, damnit. She’s wearing rouge, maybe it’ll just blend in.  
“You’re only fifteen?” she asks next. “You look older. It’s cause you’re pretty, I guess. Your makeup’s really nice. And your hair, the length makes you look mature.”  
Well now she’s _really_ blushing. “Thanks. My aunt did my makeup, I’m really bad with that sort of stuff. How old are you? You look like you’re older.”  
“I’m fifteen as well,” she answers, even still sounding much older and more mature than that. They both do, in all honesty. That’s what happens when you’re forced to grow up a little too fast. “I’m bad at makeup too,” the redhead nods. “My dad’s girlfriend– my, uh, my new stepmom, actually, I guess, as of tonight, she’s trying to teach me. She says it’s something a mom should teach her teenager. Since I don’t have one of those…”  
Luisa eyes and spirits plummet, again. “I don’t have a mom to teach me either,” she mumbles.  
“I’m so sorry,” the redhead immediately starts, locking two, black-lined blue eyes with Luisa’s watery, chocolate-coloured ones.  
“You said your dad and his girlfriend got married tonight?” Luisa asks, changing the topic real fast. “Congratulations to them.”  
“And only them,” the redhead sneers, one hand drifting to brush hair away from her face, the other tucked into a pant pocket. A smile dance across her pale lips as she gets an idea. “Have you ever drank vodka before?” 

_The Lord really was testing her tonight, sending her a hot, suit-wearing redhead that wants to drink with her–_

“I shouldn’t...” Luisa starts.  
The redhead grunts. “No one _should_ ,” she points out. “I’ll go steal us a bottle, and I promise I’ll back quick.”  
Luisa nods. “Hey, by the way, I’m Luisa. I never asked what your name was?”  
The redhead cocked a grin, and disappeared from the restroom. “I’ll be right back, Luisa.” 

When Luisa heard the door open again a few moments later, she assumed it was her new friend, having snagged a bottle for them two to share. She had to stop herself from salivating for more than one reason, and turned around a little too excitedly. It wasn’t her, though. It was just Tia Freda.  
“ _Abuela_ sent me to check on you, she knows you aren’t the best with your makeup,” she says with a warm smile. “Let’s get back to your party, _princessa_. This is your day.” She wraps her arm around her niece’s shoulders, leading her out of the restroom.  
“I made a friend–” Luisa starts.  
“You, always making friends, everywhere you go,” her aunt answers, blowing her off quickly, as if she hadn’t believed her niece. That was the same way she used to dismiss her younger sister too. “You have friends in the ballroom, they are waiting for you. You should not keep your guests waiting.” 

Luisa looked behind her, to the ballroom beside theirs. She doesn’t know what she was expecting– white balloons, maybe, or flowers, something that showed there really was a wedding reception in there, and a redhead daughter of the groom that would be returning to her with a bottle of Smirnoff she’d snatched for them. Instead, she found no sign of life, staring at an open door to a vacated hall. She can’t get a second look, to see if her eyes deceived her, to try and spot her sport coat wearing saviour, before she’s back in her own hall, facing a firing squad of worried _abuelitas_. 

Maybe she _had_ imagined her. Maybe the best part of her quinceanera had been a figment of her imagination. Either way, she was going to go get that bottle of Smirnoff from the bar herself. She sure needed it now.


End file.
